


Yellow Bird

by Tezy



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Crossdressing, Growing Up, I'm Sorry, M/M, Separations, Songfic, alternative universe, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tezy/pseuds/Tezy
Summary: “I hate you,” Frank raged, and twisted miserably in Gerard’s arms. “I hate you – I hate everything about you.”“I know,” he said. He tucked his chin over Frank’s head, and kept his arms wrapped tightly around him. “I don’t blame you. I hated myself too.”“Why would you leave?”





	Yellow Bird

**Author's Note:**

> Poison Oak is written about a lot darker subject than this fic, but it's a beautiful song nonetheless. I suggest a listen xo
> 
> Here's a soundtrack: https://8tracks.com/freaksnerdsromantics/your-yellow-bird

_Poison oak, some boyhood bravery / when a telephone was a tin can on a string_

–

**April 9 rd, 1987**

 

“Ma! There’s a boy staring through the fence!”

 

There was the sound of laughter from the kitchen, where his mother was chopping vegetables for their dinner that night. He could see a glimpse of her red dress as she swayed past the patio doors, and then she yelled, “Why don’t you go say hi, Frankie?”

 

Frank wasn’t sure he wanted to say hi, considering the person was staring at him. Or rather, the person’s eye was staring at him, because the hole he was looking through was so small Frank could only see that, a few strands of dirty brown hair and a sliver of pale skin. He knew it was a boy though, because he’d seen him before from his window when they were moving in.

 

They’d only been in the town for three days, and he was only eight, and he was missing his old home badly.

 

The eye stared at him.

 

He worked up the courage to walk over then, and said, “Why are you staring at me?”

 

“You’re new,” the disembodied voice said from the other side. “I like new.” There was a small pause, and then a rustle of grass, and suddenly the voice wasn’t so disembodied anymore because there was a small, inquisitive face popping over the top of the fence. “Hello!”

 

Frank jumped back slightly, then said, “Hello. Are you coming over here?”

 

“Do you mind?” the boy said, but it seemed to be a rhetorical question, because then he heaved himself up and over the fence, and he threw himself into a tucked-in roll. He picked himself up, and turned to Frank, who was watching with slightly wide-eyes. The boy, who looked a few years older than him and was strangely gangly and bright-eyed, stuck his hand out and said, “I’m Gerard. I’m ten today! Who are you?”

 

“Frank,” he answered quietly, as he took the strange boy’s – Gerard’s – slightly muddy hand. “I’m eight.”

 

“Hello, Frank-who-is-eight. Do you want to see the poison oak patch I found?”

 

_And I fell asleep with you still talking to me / you said you weren't afraid to die_

–

**July 9 th, 1995**

 

“Have you ever considered how strange it is, that we were born who we were?”

 

Frank stretched his head up, frowning, and looked at Gerard. They were both in the basement that Gerard had claimed as his own a few years ago, and it was late now, and Frank was a little bit tipsy. In the dim light, Gerard’s eyes looked particularly manic, and it wasn’t helped by the fact he was lying on the bed with his head hung off the side. The muddy brown hair of his childhood was long-gone; he’d come home one day with some cheap hair dye, and Frank had helped him dye it over the kitchen sink, and now it hung in slightly faded black strands, long enough that it would curl under his chin a little bit when he forgot to push it back.

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Hmm.” He sounded far-away, even though he was right there, and there was a note of trepidation in his voice. Gerard sometimes got like this. Frank knew that. The first time he’d been worried about it. By now he was used to his slightly spaced-out moments. Sometimes he got particularly nihilistic, and then Frank would sit and stoke his hair and they’d talk about anything until he relaxed, and settled back into his old self.

 

“It’s too late for an existential crisis,” Frank said quietly. “Pass me a beer?”

 

They’d snuck them out of Gerard’s mom’s garage, even though they were certain she knew exactly where they’d disappeared to, but she’d apparently decided there was worse things her eighteen year old son could be getting up to.

 

Gerard threw one in his direction, and it sailed right over his shoulder and bounced onto the dirty floorboards. “Oh, thanks. I enjoy them when they’re explosive.”

 

“You’re welcome.” There was the small-toothed grin that had kind of freaked Frank out when he first met him, but Gerard had grown into it. He looked less like a pixie these days, Frank thought. More of a slightly too-cheerful vampire. “I suppose at least I’m not a canary,” Gerard said, and then he shrugged, which was weird to see with his upside-down state.

 

“A canary?”

 

“Miners used to keep canaries in the coal mines, for when there was toxic gases. They’d die first, so the miners could get out.” Noticing Frank’s slightly bemused look, he explained, “I saw a documentary on it the other night.”

 

“Of course. Do you want to watch _The Wizard_?”

 

“Fuck yeah. Come up here.” Gerard sat up, and shuffled himself around until he was in the far-corner of the unmade bed. Frank heaved himself to his feet, a little unsteadily after three beers, and shuffled over. He fell without any grace, and ended up elbowing Gerard a little in the stomach, but he didn’t complain.

 

Gerard put on the movie on, then pulled one of his blankets, which was covered in little dancing pixies, and wrapped it around his shoulders. He settled back then, and Frank wormed up against him until he relented and let him settle under the blanket as well, curling up close to his side. People thought it was weird, how affectionate they could be, but Frank didn’t care.

 

The movie made his eyes heavy, and he fought off sleep for as long as he could, but it was a losing battle. Gerard shifted next to him, and murmured something indistinct, then his fingers slipped into Frank’s hair, and he stroked Frank’s scalp and neck whilst humming something under his breath.

 

“I don’t think I’d mind being a canary,” he said, as Frank drifted away. “Not for my friends. I’m not afraid to die.”

 

 

_In polaroids you were dressed in women's clothes / were you made ashamed, why'd you lock them in a drawer? / I don't think that I ever loved you more_

–

**October 31 st, 1996**

 

He was seventeen today, but he felt like a child still, especially since his mother was fussing over his clothes as if he’d chosen them just to slight her.

 

“That t-shirt, really Frankie?” she said, soft and somehow biting still. He glanced at his t-shirt, which was one he’d ‘borrowed’ from Gerard and never returned. It wasn’t even that bad – there was a woman on it, and a vampire who was biting her neck, but that was the worst of it. He had much more graphic ones hidden away. “You know your aunt doesn’t like this –” She made a vague motion towards him, as if trying to encompass his half-shaved hair and lip-ring and unacceptable clothes choices all at once. “Why would you make it worse?”

 

He frowned. “I’m sure she’ll handle it, mom. She’s an adult.”

 

She huffed, but turned away, apparently accepting defeat. “They’ll be here in ten. Be on your best behaviour would you?”

 

Frank said nothing, because he was still sore that his mother had decided the best way to celebrate _his_ seventeenth birthday was to invite relatives he didn’t even _like_ and have a family dinner. But he knew how to play the dutiful child, and he forced himself to smile and endure the endless tirade of ‘You’ve grown so big’ (a total lie – he was still barely his mother’s height) and ‘You’re such a handsome man’ that came with it.

 

It dragged on too long, and he got fidgety and anxious. His mother watched him with pursed lips as he ripped a napkin into tiny little shreds, and then when they’d finally finished the dessert, she inclined her head and said, “I think we should have a glass of wine in the sitting room,” and then looked pointedly at Frank, which he knew was his dismissal.

 

He jumped up, and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, and then he darted upstairs to grab his bag. He’d told Gerard he would be there for eight so they could binge-watch horror B-movies and celebrate his birthday in style, but it was already past eight since Aunt Jemma couldn’t stop talking about her damn _cats_.

 

(He loved all animals, and he’d already mentioned to his mother about possibly becoming vegan, and she’d given him a _look_ which had told him that was not something she was putting up with, but there was only so much he could hear about poor Mr. Purrkin’s hairball without wanting to shoot himself.)

 

He saw all his relatives gathered in the sitting room, gripping wine glasses and chatting, and he offered them a wave as he darted outside, vaulted the fence which had been so imposing in his childhood, and ducked under the over-grown oak tree which was about two seconds away from falling onto Gerard’s house.

 

He knocked, and Mikey answered the door with a bored looking expression, but when he saw Frank, he smiled. Frank had never quite gotten as close to Gerard’s brother as he had to Gerard himself, but they were still friends, and he liked Mikey’s dry kind of humour, and his lack of judgement.

 

“He’s downstairs,” Mikey said, without Frank asking.

 

He took the stairs down to the basement two at a time, and saw Gerard was curled up on the bed, a sketchpad on his knees, deep in concentration. It smelled kind of musky and damp, and Frank wrinkled his nose slightly, but then Gerard looked up and his bright grin distracted him. “You’re here! I thought I might have to send out a rescue team.”

 

“You looked like you were frantic with worry,” Frank said flatly, and he laughed as he threw himself onto the bed, flopping around like a particularly inelegant octopus.

 

Gerard knocked his knee into his side gently. “Shut up, you’re the one that’s late.” He put his sketchpad down on the bedside table with the reverence most people reserved for babies and precious family heirlooms, then said, “Come on, I found my copy of _The Stuff_.”

 

Frank sat up, his complaints already forgotten. “ _Awesome_. I went off ice-cream for so long after that film.”

 

Gerard leaned close, his eyes wide and nervy and intense in the dim light. “Are you eatin’ it,” he said, pausing dramatically, “ _or is it eatin’ you?_ ”

 

Frank laughed sharply, and pushed Gerard back. There was a moment where Gerard just smiled at him, and then he said, “C’mon, it’s my _birthday_ , let’s watch some dumb movies.”

 

They watched _The Stuff_ all the way through, although Frank made faces at the stuff-zombies, half-disgust, half-amusement, and then Gerard picked out _Plan 9 From Outer Space_ (which Frank secretly thought was the most boring movie ever, but he didn’t tell Gerard that). When it was over, he remembered suddenly he’d brought one of the shitty movies his friend Pete had leant him, and he grabbed his bag and dug it out.

 

“Manos, hands of fate!” he declared proudly, holding up the VHS which looked a bit like it had been left in an attic for three decades untouched (probably not far from the actual truth.)

 

“Hands of _what?_ ”

 

They watched the opening scene with a mixture of confusion and incredulity. Five minutes in, and nothing had happened. There was just a car driving – although where exactly, Frank wasn’t sure. And then there was a random teenage couple making out in a car. And then there was a car driving again. Frank was watching it all with intense curiosity.

 

Gerard wasn’t quite as enamoured as he was. “What _is_ this?”

 

Frank shrugged, eyes still glued to the screen. “This is brilliant. This is art.”

 

“I hate you,” Gerard said, laughing.

 

Frank turned, schooling his features into an expression of shock. “You can’t say that on my birthday!”

 

“I just did.”

 

Frank considered tickling him (he knew exactly the spot which made Gerard scream and beg for mercy, and it was an excellent way to win their wars) but instead he decided to intimidate him into agreement. It probably wasn’t the best idea, considering he was five-foot-six (and a half), but hey, it _was_ his birthday.

 

He crawled up the bed where Gerard was, and settled himself over his knees, and tried to stare menacingly into Gerard’s eyes.

 

“What are you doing?” Gerard sounded more amused than anything, which wasn’t exactly a success.

 

“Intimidating you.”

 

“Ah. I see.”

 

“Is it working?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

Frank huffed. “I don’t like you anyway.”

 

Gerard leaned forward then, a smile on his lips. His breath was warm, and there was the hint of liquor there as well (Frank was a little sad he’d started without him, for a minute.) Frank’s stomach flipped slightly. “That’s definitely a lie.”

 

Frank stared back, without saying anything. They seemed to be engaged in a staring battle.

 

Behind them, there was the sound of a car door slamming in the movie, and Frank startled slightly. He shuffled to the side uncomfortably.

 

“Did you get me a present?” he asked.

 

Gerard had the far-off look in his eyes again, but he nodded and waved a hand vaguely towards his desk. “Yeah, yeah, it’s, uh, left pile. I think.” He gave Frank a smile, quickly, then turned his attention back to the movie.

 

Frank got up, and shuffled through the debris that was Gerard’s bedroom floor over to the desk which had once, optimistically, been bought for studying. Now, it heaved under the weight of comic books, half-finished drawings, interesting news articles Gerard had cut out for no apparent reason, and strange junk he was hoarding for future art projects. A silver-cast scorpion sat on the very edge, and it seemed to be staring at him. At some point, one of the legs had broken off, and now it only had seven, so it wobbled if you touched it. Frank had a weird soft spot for the slightly deformed scorpion.

 

The left pile wasn’t the most helpful descriptor, as there was three piles on the left side of the desk of varying heights and structural integrity. He assumed that it would probably towards the top, but a quick search through all three showed nothing which could be considered vaguely present-like.

 

“Gerard, there’s nothing here,” he said, turning back. He was a little bit annoyed he was on a treasure hunt for his own present, but he expected nothing less from his absent-minded best friend.

 

Gerard frowned slightly, looking puzzled, and then his expression seemed to clear in a moment. “Oh shit, I put it in the top drawer, I was worried I’d bury it under all my own shit.”

 

Frank half-sighed, but there was no malice in it, and he opened the top drawer. Sure enough, there was a small wrapped present there, for some reason wrapped in old Christmas paper, and he grinned as he pulled it out. It felt light, and when he shook it, there was no tell-tale rattle.

 

He was about to turn back to bed when he noticed that taking the present out had revealed there were a few scattered polaroids lying in the drawer, and he turned his attention to them. There was one, of a scarlet red lips, which drew his eye first. Had Gerard being seeing a girl he didn’t know about? He wasn’t quite sure if the sharp feeling in his stomach was jealousy (how come he’d got a girl?) or betrayal (why hadn’t he told him?)

 

There were a few more of a girl, but he didn’t get a clear look before Gerard said, “What are you doing? Come watch the movie!”

 

“Nothing,” Frank said, as he slipped one of the polaroids he hadn’t yet looked properly at into his sleeve and wandered back over to the bed. He tried not to look too sheepish, even though he wasn’t quite sure _why_ he’d taken it. He settled back on the bed, gripping his present tightly. “What did I miss?”

 

“Absolutely nothing,” Gerard said flatly, indicating the screen. “There’s a creepy guy that can’t walk properly. Are you going to open your present?”

 

Frank grinned, relaxing, and ripped the top layer of wrapping off. Underneath was an old newspaper which Gerard had scribbled over with little vampire bats. That was adorable, and he almost felt bad ripping that to get to the actual present.

 

It was a jewel case, and the artwork on the front was in Gerard’s distinctive style. There was a yellow canary, beak tilted up to the sun. Next to it, a tiny vampire with exaggerated fangs. In the background, an angelic baby was floating and the city was burning. Frank didn’t quite understand it, but he liked it. He flipped it over to the back, and there was a track list.

 

“You made me a mixtape?” he said, turning to look at Gerard, who looked like he was eagerly awaiting Frank’s reaction. There was a small nod in response. “So cool,” Frank breathed. He’d never had a CD made for him before. “I will cherish it!”

 

Gerard laughed, and shook his head. His too-long hair fell into his eyes with the movement. “Sure, for two seconds before you lose it. I’m glad you like it, though.”

 

“I _love_ it,” Frank said firmly.

 

Gerard grinned brilliantly at him.

 

–

 

They’d had many one too many beers whilst they watched the rest of the movie – which was a terrible as it had started – and Frank’s eyes were threatening to slide closed. He was almost relieved when the credits finished and the TV cut to black, and the rest of the room faded back into half-darkness.

 

There were fingers on his jaw, touching gently, insistently. He opened his eyes without realising he’d closed them and focused on Gerard, whose face seemed to be almost-too close.

 

“Hey – you tired?” Gerard said softly, as if his half-open eyes weren’t answer enough.

 

Frank only really managed to make a sleepy noise in response. Gerard’s fingers were sliding through his hair, and his fingernails were dragging little patterns on his scalp. The moment seemed to slide into eternity.

 

–

 

He almost forgot about the polaroid until he was sneaking back into his own home and he was trying to climb the stairs without alerting his mother, the neighbourhood or the whole world. As he lifted his hand to steady himself against the wall, it slipped out of his sleeve, and landed on the steps. He paused for a moment, considering, then ducked down and picked it up, and continued his journey up to his bed with all the stealth of a slightly drunk elephant.

 

When he was in bed, he held it up. On the back, it was blank except for ‘07/07’. He flipped it over, still curious, and he felt his face flush as he realised what it really was of.

 

He was wearing heels that could kill a man, and a red dress which clung to him like a second skin and flared out over his hips, skimming his knees. And red lipstick like cherry soda and bitten lips. His lips looked velvet-soft.

 

Frank stared at the photo of his best friend in girl’s clothes for a long time, not quite sure why he couldn’t tear his eyes away it. Without thinking, he traced the curve of his jawbone with one finger.

 

_Then when you turned away / when you slammed the door / when you stole the car / and drove towards Mexico_

–

**November 1 st, 1996**

 

“I’m sick of this.” Gerard was pacing, and he looked a bit like an animal trapped in a too-small cage, all wild hair and wild eyes.

 

Frank was following him with his eyes from his position on the bed. “Why?”

 

It was a simple question, but it seemed to be enough to antagonise Gerard further, because he rounded on Frank with a dark look. “It’s claustrophobic. It’s stifling here. Everybody knows everybody. I want to get out of here.” His voice took on a slightly desperate tone. “I want to go to art school. I want to see the world. I want _out_.”

 

“You want to leave me behind?” Frank tried not to make it sound like an accusation. He didn’t manage.

 

“You could come with me.”

 

“That’s ridiculous, and you know it.” Frank sighed, and shifted his position on the bed so he wasn’t quite so uncomfortable, stretching his legs out. Gerard ignored him. He was too busy at his desk now, fidgeting with things. He opened one of the drawers, then closed it again. Then he opened it again.

 

There was a moment, then he said, “Frank?”

 

Frank was looking at his own shoes, mostly bored, slightly tired, but he snapped his head up and went, “Hmm?”

 

There was a long pause, and then Gerard turned back to him, frowning. “You didn’t see, uh,” he paused, and seemed to consider something for a moment, then forged on, “a polaroid around here?”

 

“ _What_?” he said, but it was too wild, and quick. He paused, then said, “A polaroid?”

 

“Yeah – uh, I had, six. Here. For a project.” Gerard was frowning back at his desk drawer now. “There’s five.”

 

“Didn’t just miscount?” Frank asked weakly, thinking of the polaroid lying on his bedside table back at his place.

 

“Frank.” Gerard tone was flat now as he turned back to look at Frank again. There was none of his normal humour, and his hand was gripping the drawer handle so tightly that it was turning white where it pressed into the metal. Frank shrugged, trying to look wide-eyed and innocent. It didn’t particularly work. “Did you _take_ it?”

 

“Why would I take it?”

 

Gerard looked contrite for a moment, then he said, “You’re the only person that’s been here.” His voice dropped. “Those were private, Frank.”

 

Frank didn’t like the accusatory tone he’d adopted, even though he knew he deserved it entirely. He sat up, and glared at Gerard. “We’re not meant to have secrets,” he snapped. He stood up, quickly, and grabbed his bag. “You’re meant to _trust_ me. Now you just want to leave me.”

 

Gerard took a step towards him, faltered, then said, “I don’t want to leave you.”

 

“Doesn’t fucking sound like it,” he said bitterly. He went for the stairs, and then felt Gerard’s hand on his arm, which span him back around.

 

Without a warning, Gerard was crowding into his space, and his lips were on him.

 

Frank had kissed someone before, obviously, had actually done it a whole slew of times, half-drunk and sleepy kisses in the dark at parties, fierce kisses pressed up in secluded places - but this was different entirely. It was barely a brush of their lips, chaste and soft. Frank thought of velvet and cherry soda.

 

When Gerard pulled away, his eyes were wide and confused and maybe even slightly horrified.

 

Frank felt a bit like he’d been doused in cold water all of a sudden, the floaty happiness that had invaded gone as suddenly as it had come.

 

Gerard didn’t say anything.

 

He didn’t stop Frank as he pushed past him.

 

–

 

The guilt was the worst of it. He’d been fuelled by anger as he stormed up the basement stairs, his bag bouncing against his hip, past a slightly startled Mikey in the hallway, and into his own house. It was only when he was back in his own room, alone, that he regretted how rash he’d been, how quick to anger.

 

Especially since he knew he _was_ in the wrong.

 

His gaze drifted over to the polaroid, and he picked it up, looked at it again, then opened the top drawer of bedside table and dropped it in. He closed it with too much force.

 

The problem was, he realised, as he settled on his bed, and stared blankly at the walls, that it wasn’t that he was mad about. He knew he’d fucked up there. He could beg forgiveness, that he didn’t mind.

 

What had struck a chord was the idea that Gerard actually wanted to leave, and he wanted to leave Frank behind. They’d spoken about it before, plans to run away together, get jobs and their own place, confidence buoyed by cheap beer and the darkness of night, but that had been just broken whispers and half-cooked dreams. He was seventeen, there was no way he could leave this town, not for a few more years. He’d been more aware of the two year age gap these days, when Gerard had left school, and he still had to a wear an itchy Catholic school uniform each week, but it hadn’t been a problem before. They were childhood friends, that shit didn’t really matter.

 

Not until now.

 

He curled up on his bed, still fully-clothed, and closed his eyes. His mind was a tempest. He wasn’t sure if he was still angry, or he was disappointed, or just sad.

 

_And you wrote bad checks / just to fill your arm / I was young enough, I still believed in war_

–

**November 2 nd, 1996**

 

He woke up tired, and sore, and felt grim still in last night’s clothes with the scents of stale smoke still lingering. He took his time in the shower, scrubbing his hair and his skin until it was bright pink, telling himself it wasn’t because he was _stalling_ , he was just being extra clean today.

 

Eventually, he could drag it out no longer. He went back to his room, and dressed quickly in another one of his ‘borrowed’ sweatshirts from Gerard, and then he carefully took the polaroid from his bedside table and tucked it into his jeans. He didn’t look at it again, not quite sure he trusted himself anymore.

 

He went over to the house next door with his guts in a twisted mess and knocked.

 

Mikey opened the door, and paused, and then said, “Is he with you?” in a voice which most people would have taken to be as emotionless. Frank knew better though, he’d heard it before when their puppy had been hit by a passing motorist. Mikey was on shut-down mode, and Frank didn’t know why.

 

He stopped, confused briefly, and then said, “Is who with me?”

 

“Gerard,” Mikey said, as if it was obvious, which, now Frank thought about it, it was, considering that Gerard was basically his only friend.

 

“No? I last saw him last night.” Frank’s stomach dropped slightly. “Why? What’s wrong?”

 

Mikey shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake his thoughts together, and then said, “You should come in.”

 

He took Frank into the living room, which was somewhere Frank rarely went, because there were glass cases of old china dolls which stared from each wall that freaked him out too much to stay there long. Mikey was silent. He saw Donna was sat on their ugly floral couch, staring into the distance. When they walked in, she looked up, and her eyes seemed to light up briefly, but then Mikey shook his head, and her head dropped back down.

 

“What’s going on?” Frank demanded. The whole atmosphere felt stifling. He was close to screaming.

 

Mikey glanced back at him, then said, “Gerard left last night, after you stormed out. I didn’t see him go. I just saw his car drive away. He left most of his stuff.”

 

Frank’s mouth dropped open slightly, not quite sure he believed what he was hearing. “What? Where did he go?”

 

Mikey shrugged, looking defeated. “I don’t know. He left a note, but it just said he needed space, not to chase him down.” He stopped, and seemed to shrink in on himself slightly. “He said he didn’t want to talk to you,” he added quietly.

 

Frank looked between the both of them, slightly incredulously. “Have you called the cops?”

 

“He’s nineteen,” Donna said tightly, finally looking up. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. Frank didn’t want to think about it, or if it was his fault. “They won’t do anything. He’s an _adult_.” She spat out the last word as if it was a swear word.

 

–

 

Mikey asked around. Nobody had any information, which was surprising, because Mikey knew everybody.

 

–

**November 16 th, 1996**

 

Frank stole a couple of hundred bucks from his mother’s stash, and headed into the city. He stopped outside one of the less reputable shops, the ones which had no neon-lights, no inviting signs. It was dark and damp and a bit terrifying.

 

He went inside.

 

“I want this,” he said, sliding the silver-cast scorpion he’d swiped from Gerard’s room over the counter. The man behind the counter just looked at him for a moment, if evaluating him. He knew he looked underage.

 

The man shook his head slightly, a wry smile on his face. He was at least forty, and every section of skin Frank could see was covered in colourful designs. There was even some curling down the sides of his face. “And where would you like this, young man?”

 

Frank bit his lip, then pressed a finger to his neck, and – to his credit – the man didn’t flinch.

 

“Cash only,” he said flatly.

 

Frank dug into his pockets.

 

–

 

As he was leaving, the man caught his arm. “You got a job?”

 

Frank shook his head, which made him wince, because the fresh tattoo on his neck was twisted sharply. He wasn’t used to it yet, but even the pain sent a little thrill through him. He’d been jittery the whole time the man was working on him, silent and intense, until the guy had clapped his arm and told him he was done.

 

“Come back sometime. We’ve got some drudge work. Cash in hand. Need somebody small who can fit under the counters to clean them.”

 

Frank couldn’t quite tell if he was joking, but he nodded.

 

–

 

He went home with a scarf wrapped around his neck, and darted straight up to his room, past his mother and the, “What are you doing –” called faintly after him.

 

He stood in front of his mirror, where he unravelled the scarf slightly, revealing the red skin, the raised black of the scorpion staring back at him. It looked like it was always meant to be there, as if he’d been missing something until then.

 

(He knew he was in for big shit when his mother noticed, but it had been done now, so there wasn’t much she could do about it. Until then, he decided he’d develop a slightly weird fascination with scarves and turned-up collars.)

 

–

**November 18 th, 1996**

 

The tattoo man’s name was Vox, he told Frank, when Frank turned up after school on Monday, shifting awkwardly in his ripped jeans and the vans which were almost falling off his feet now. He set Frank to work wiping down some of the backroom.

 

There was the faint sound of _Fix Me_ playing in the background, angry and violent, and Frank stopped for a moment to listen. _Some day_ _I’l_ _l feel no pain,_ _s_ _omeday I won’t have a brain._ His stomach curled slightly, and he went back to his work.

 

Vox wasn’t the only person that worked there, he found out, when he walked out of the backroom and straight into the back of somebody else.

 

“Woah there, kid,” the man said as he turned around. He was taller than Frank – but that wasn’t surprising – all wild hair, dark eyes and a high-pitched voice which didn’t seem to match at all.

 

“I’m not a kid,” Frank said, because he wasn’t, not really. And this guy looked like he was barely a few years older, if that.

 

There was a smile which crinkled at the corners of this new guy’s eyes. “I’m Ray,” he said, offering a hand. “You one of Vox’s orphans?” The guy’s gaze slid to Vox, who had busied himself with something on the desk out front.

 

“Uh,” said Frank, not quite sure what the correct response is. “Maybe?”

 

There was a nod. “Welcome. Let me show you the ropes.”

 

_Well, let the poets cry themselves to sleep / and all their tearful words will turn back into steam_

–

**December 18 th, 1996**

 

“I got a letter,” Mikey said, as he exhaled a stream of smoke into the darkness of the basement.

 

Frank’s breath stuttered in his throat. “Yeah?” he said, trying not to sound as excited as he was. There had been phone calls left unanswered, texts returned with two-word answers, but nothing solid. He’d given up on the idea of his best friend returning.

 

“Hmm.” Mikey sounded faint, the kind of faint that Gerard got sometimes, but sharper, more acute. “He’s been accepted into an art school. Didn’t say which one. Said he’s fine, not to worry. That he’s finally living.”

 

Frank frowned, ashing his lit cigarette into an empty beer can nearby. His heart ached. “He’s not coming back?”

 

“Not for a while.”

 

–

**January 1 st, 1997**

 

A new year. It didn’t feel much different.

 

His mother had noticed the tattoo within days, but she’d stayed tight-lipped and buried her obvious disapproval. Maybe she thought he had enough on his plate as it was. Maybe she was planning on murdering him in his sleep. He wasn’t sure which was true.

 

It was silent and awkward at home. He spent most of his time hiding in Gerard’s basement when he wasn’t at school or the tattoo studio. Donna didn’t seem to mind – she didn’t even raise an eyebrow nowadays when he shuffled into their house and buried himself in the pixie blanket in the darkness, and stayed down there for hours.

 

Sometimes he’d busy himself reading, or drawing – he’d always tried to draw, but he never felt good enough, not compared to Gerard. But Gerard wasn’t there anymore, so now he tried to fill the space with half-thought out ideas and lead smudges on his fingertips.

 

Mostly though, he lay there, thinking.

 

–

 

The letters started arriving for Mikey after a while. They were always brief. They never had a return address on them. They were the only connection they had, so they read them again and again until they were crumpled messes.

 

**–**

**February 8 th, 1998**

 

“I want to learn. Why won’t you let me learn?”

 

It was a rehash of the familiar argument they always had, and it always ended in bitter disappointment for Frank. He’d been there for almost two years, mopping floors, booking appointments, handling customers, doing goddamn _coffee runs._ And he’d not been able to get within two feet of a tattoo machine. At first it had been because he was underage – not that the law knew that – and then it had been, ‘You’re not ready yet. Keep drawing.’

 

But Vox was giving him a look over his coffee, as if considering something. His eyes were dark, and the fresh tattoo Ray had given him on his brow stood out in high relief against his skin. “Show me your sketches,” he said finally, and that was a surprise.

 

Frank almost startled back, but nodded and hurried to gather up a few of his latest ones. He handed them to Vox with very little confidence, and he waited as Vox looked them over with a furrowed brow.

 

“It’s not even here,” he said, finally, pointing at one of the letters. “Wrong angle. This line is way too thick. Throws it all off.”

 

Frank felt his hope crumple like a stack of cards in one moment. He nodded, and went to take the drawings back, but Vox drew them away from his reach and shook his head, as if saying he wasn’t done yet.

 

“I’ll get Ray to teach you on some fake skin,” Vox said finally, after a moment which had stretched on for too long. “Don’t fuck it up.”

 

–

**March 3 rd, 1998**

 

He wasn’t a natural, not really. He couldn’t work out how to grip the machine right so it wasn’t too tight and tense, and his first lines were shaky with his lack of confidence, but Ray was patient.

 

“No, move your finger, here, like this,” he said gently, once more adjusting Frank’s grip, and then he said, “You gotta relax. It’s not like drawing. If you do that, you’ll rip the skin apart.”

 

Frank sighed, and tried again.

 

–

**July 20 th, 1998**

 

“You’ve got it,” Ray said. He sounded like a proud dad as he looked at Frank’s latest work – it was still a simple rose, but the lines were even and straight, and the shading even looked pretty damn good.

 

Frank grinned, easy and light, feeling relief swell through him.

 

“Of course, this ain’t shit compared to doing it on a living human,” Vox said, as he walked over. He took the fake skin out of Ray’s hands, and looked it over. His brow quirked slightly. “Not bad, squirt.”

 

–

**October 20 th, 1998**

 

Vox rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a tiny sliver of unmarked skin around his elbow. “Knock yourself out.”

 

Frank picked up the tattoo machine, feeling invincible.

 

–

**March 13 th, 1999**

 

He was almost surprised when he got his certification. He couldn’t stop staring at it, running his fingers over the paper, over where his name was printed in sharp block capitals. 2,000 hours of work. Here it was.

 

He hung a copy on the wall of his shitty one bedroom apartment, and another on the wall of the shop, and realised this was exactly what he’d been working towards for so long. He finally felt content.

 

 

_But me I'm a single cell / on a serpents tongue / there's a muddy field where a garden was_

–

**November 1 st, 1999**

 

He hadn’t meant to go back to his childhood home, not particularly. His mother still lived there, but he’d long since moved away, and his visits were infrequent. But this was different. It was the anniversary of the day he’d found Gerard gone, and he could feel his blood fizzing, and a tug in his brain that made his teeth clench, and he could only think of going back.

 

It didn’t even feel like three years had passed. Nothing had changed in the neighbourhood, but when he went into the back garden, he saw where the oak tree had been there was only a muddy ditch. The wood fence that had separated their houses was listing to the side like a sinking ship. Frank understood that.

 

He went to see his mom, and hugged her tightly and let her cling to his shoulders and mutter into his t-shirt and stayed like that for too long, then guided her to the sofa and sat down where they mostly stared at each other over cups of coffee, afraid to break the silence.

 

–

_And I'm glad you got away but I'm still stuck out here / my clothes are soaking wet from your brother's tears_

–

 

She let him leave after dinner, and he went over to see Donna and Mikey.

 

Mikey was sitting quietly in the basement, and his mouth was pressed into a small line.

 

He wordlessly handed Frank the postcard he was holding. Frank glanced at it as he sat down heavily on the bed, and felt his throat constrict. There were only four words printed on the back.

 

_Mikey –_

_I’m coming home_

 

Mikey shifted slightly next to him, and Frank let him settle against his side, and draped an arm around his shoulders gently. Mikey leaned into the touch like he was seeking comfort, burying his face into Frank’s collarbone, and stayed silent. Frank kept the embrace light, slightly scared that Mikey might fracture under too rough a touch.

 

He felt rather than heard Mikey’s hiccuped breaths against his chest, and Frank whispered soothing words into the dark as Mikey’s tears stained the ratty t-shirt he was wearing with the woman being bitten by a vampire on the front.

 

_And I never thought this life was possible / you're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for_

–

**November 5 th, 1999**

 

Vox caught his arm as he was entering the shop, a strange parallel of his first meeting with the man and said, “You ain’t go not stalkers, have you?”

 

Frank frowned. “No – not that I know of.” He gave Vox as sideways look. “Why?”

 

Vox dropped his arm, and then said, “Nothin’. Make us a cup of coffee?”

 

–

**November 12 th, 1999**

 

“Are you _sure_ about the stalker thing?”

 

Frank frowned at Vox over his coffee cup. It had been a week, and Vox hadn’t mentioned it again until now. “Are you going to tell me one of my exes has been hanging around? Was it Alex?”

 

Vox laughed. “I scared Alex off the first time you ever brought him here, don’t be silly.” He paused, as if considering, then said, “Some guy has come in asking for you twice. Told him you don’t work here, or if you do, I don’t know nothin’ about it. I don’t think he believed me.”

 

Frank’s grip on his coffee slid slightly, it sloshed against the rim, and spilled on the floor. _Gerard_.

 

“Do we have to have the conversation about the properties of liquids again?” Ray yelled from behind him, grumbling loudly under his breath as he went for the mop.

 

But Frank wasn’t listening. “What did he look like?” he asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.

 

It didn’t work, judging from Vox’s raised eyebrow. The intricate design above his eyebrow shifted with the movement. Frank still hadn’t worked out what exactly it was, some random combination of edges and lines which he loved. “Twitchy,” he said. “Looked like he’d flee if you spoke too loud.”

 

Frank closed his eyes, and tried to slow down his heart and bite back his nausea. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves, relief, anger or a mix of all three.

 

“Somebody important, huh?”

 

–

 

He called Mikey that night.

 

“He’s back, isn’t he?”

 

Mikey was damningly silent on the other end.

 

Frank wanted to scream, just a little bit. “You can’t keep this from me.”

 

“Don’t do anything rash,” Mikey said finally.

 

–

**November 13 th, 1999**

 

It was the end of the day, and everybody had gone home. As Ray left, he’d clapped Frank on the arm and said, “Look after yourself, kid.” Frank didn’t even bother to correct him on the ‘kid’ thing. He didn’t have the energy.

 

He put Misfits on the tinny shop radio, and got to work wiping down surfaces and setting up for the next day. They didn’t technically close for another ten minutes, so he wasn’t even surprised when he heard the chime above the door. He half-turned, ready to tell whoever it was that their dumb ass would have to wait until tomorrow because it was home time, and his words died in his throat.

 

His hair was different, shorter, less stringy, and his cheekbones were more angular, but there was no mistaking him. _Gerard_.

 

“We’re closed,” Frank said flatly, not trusting his own brain to say anything else.

 

“I – can we talk?”

 

“Is vocabulary not your strong point? We’re _closed_.”

 

He looked twitchy, as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. He was shifting from foot to foot. “I know. I just need to – I need you to know. I’m sorry I ran.”

 

Frank wanted to clock him around his dumb face, and then he wanted to kiss him better, and the internal battle raging inside of him made him curl his fists together so tightly he was sure he’d leave half-moon indents in his palm.

 

“This isn’t the right time.”

 

Gerard frowned, eyes focused slightly over his shoulder, as if he couldn’t even look Frank in his damn face anymore, and that _hurt_. “I’ve been trying since I got home,” he said weakly.

 

“This isn’t the right place either.” Frank turned back to the counter top he’d been wiping, and picked up the rag. He shoved it back into the basket of cleaning products, and then grabbed his jacket off the chair nearby. He’d apologise to Vox in the morning. He just needed out of there.

 

He was halfway out the door when he realised that Gerard hadn’t moved at all. He was watching him, but doing nothing.

 

“Well? Are you fucking coming, or _what_?”

 

–

 

The silence was deafening in his car.

 

He turned up the radio as loud as it would go, the CD he’d had in there previously blasting out. _I only want to know a couple of things about you, where were you when I was in so much trouble with myself and do you still believe in me like I believe._

 

He tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

 

–

 

He didn’t bother to say a word as he slammed the car door and stalked towards his shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, but he heard Gerard’s hesitant footsteps behind him. He shoved the door open far more violently than was necessary, and stalked into the kitchen. It was a complete tip, scattered takeaway menus and dirty dishes stacked on the sides, but he didn’t think Gerard would care, considering his own lack of inclination towards cleaning.

 

Not that Frank knew him anymore, not after three years apart. He could be somebody entirely different now.

 

Frank bit back the bitter taste in his mouth, and he turned around, and he finally looked Gerard in the eyes. He was standing in the doorway, hovering anxiously, arms pulled tight around his body. His eyebrows were drawn together, and there was a crease there which Frank wanted to run his fingers over and smooth out.

 

It _hurt_. He was so fucking in love with him it hurt more than Frank had ever hurt before.

 

He had eyes like galaxies. Frank thought perhaps he could see his own life in their depths, somehow intricately intertwined.

 

“Explain,” Frank said sharply, when the silence had stretched out long enough.

 

“I loved you,” Gerard said, and Frank felt like the breath had been kicked out of him. “I’m sorry. I could never be enough for you. You deserve somebody who could be your everything.”

 

Frank felt a surge of anger and he reared forward, pressing into Gerard’s space. He wanted to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of his neck and pin him against the wall and choke the words out of him, but instead he curled his hands into fists at his sides. Gerard took two steps back into the hallway and Frank followed.

 

“I never wanted someone who would look at me like I hung the moon in the sky, all I ever fucking wanted was _you_. You were my best friend,” he said.

 

 _Were_. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

 

“I – didn’t think – I wanted you to be happy, Frank,” Gerard replied miserably, taking another step back.

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Frank bit back as he grabbed the back of Gerard’s head and dragged him into a kiss. It wasn’t soft or gentle, it was a hard and hungry and tongue-swallowing, out-for-blood kiss. Gerard’s arms slid around his hips, pulling him closer as if he was trying to melt them together.

 

Frank pulled his head back, panting and open-mouthed.

 

“Sorry,” Gerard repeated, fingers sliding under the soft cotton of Frank’s t-shirt and tracing the inked skin there. Frank grabbed his hands and yanked them away, but Gerard slid them around Frank’s waist instead, drawing him closer.

 

“I hate you,” Frank raged, and twisted miserably in Gerard’s arms. “I hate you – I hate everything about you.”

 

“I know,” he said. He tucked his chin over Frank’s head, and kept his arms wrapped tightly around him. “I don’t blame you. I hated myself too.”

 

“Why would you leave?”

 

The words hung in the air, razor sharp.

 

“I needed to get out.” He sighed softly into Frank’s hair. “I missed you every day.”

 

Frank’s breath caught in his throat. “You could have come back,” Frank said bitterly, without meaning to. He tipped his head back and met Gerard’s eyes which were soft and unfocused, staring over his shoulder.

 

“I wanted to, I just – I had to prove myself? Show that it was worth it all.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “I _never_ stopped missing home.”

 

Frank felt limp, as if somebody had stolen all his bones. He reached one hand up and rubbed his thumb over Gerard's lower lip, ran his fingers through Gerard's hair, pushed it away from his face. He left his hand there for a long moment.

 

Then he lent in and kissed him again, hesitantly this time, a ghost of his lips against Gerard’s. There was none of the bitter rage behind it, and it reminded him with a pang of their first kiss in the damp basement, three years back.

 

Gerard mumbled something against his mouth, and Frank pulled back, frowning. “What?”

 

“You are my home,” he repeated softly.

 

Gerard leaned back in and his mouth slid downwards to kiss Frank's throat, his collarbone, mouthing over the scorpion tattoo, and Frank felt his breath stutter and, distantly, in the back of his mind, he reminded himself that he was supposed to be angry at the man currently sliding his hand down his stomach.

 

Still, Frank became pliant under his hands, arching his back into the touch, and Gerard closed his mouth over the spot where he could feel Frank's pulse thudding. It sent hot-cold sensations through Frank’s entire body.

 

Trying not to think about what he was doing, Frank hooked his fingers through Gerard’s belt loops and pulled him with him into the bedroom. His apartment was only about two feet wide, so it wasn’t long until he’d managed to drag Gerard down onto his unmade bed. His hands didn’t want to stay still, so he ran them up and down Gerard’s sides, surprised at how thin he felt under the cotton of his t-shirt. There was none of his puppy fat left anymore, he was all sharp angles and hipbones. It felt like he’d been replaced by a new version, that Frank had missed out on this transformation.

 

He shuddered and pulled their mouths back together. Gerard had been silent up until then, but then he made a soft, breathy noise against Frank’s lips and rocked his hips forward.

 

Frank’s hand shook as he shed his jacket and slid his t-shirt up over his shoulders. Gerard was staring intently at him, unsettlingly, so Frank pressed forward and slid their mouths back together.

 

–

 

Frank wrapped a blanket around himself tightly, then reached over to his jacket, which had been tossed carelessly on the floor, and dug out his squashed pack of smokes. Without asking, he handed one to Gerard, and then lit his own and handed the lighter over. He stared silently at the soft tendrils of smoke which slid towards the ceiling.

 

_Breathe in, breathe out._

 

He noticed out of the corner of his eye as Gerard reached out to the bedside table and grabbed the jewel case there, then turned to Frank.

 

“You kept it?” he asked, eyes wide and bright like liquid amber, holding up the mixtape he’d given Frank on his seventeenth birthday.

 

Frank glanced over, then nodded stiffly. He’d tried to throw it away, of course he had, but at the last moment he’d lost the willpower and he’d tucked it into some dark corner of his wardrobe, trying to forget it existed. When he’d realised Gerard was back in town, he’d dug it out and slid it into the CD player he still owned and never used, and listened to the thick-throated voice cry _“_ _find your faith in your security, all broken up at seventeen, jam your brain with broken heroes, love your masks and adore your failure”_ , letting the words slide around him like armour.

 

–

**November 20 th, 1999**

 

“You're perfect,” Gerard said into his wrist, his mouth soft and warm against Frank’s tattooed skin.

 

Frank felt like he’d been punched in the throat. There was something too-tender, too-soft about the way Gerard was looking up at him through his lashes as he kissed the other wrist. Gerard’s mouth slid down and he breathed Frank’s name out over the black ink of ROMANTIC that was wrapped around the broken heart.

 

“C'mere,” he said finally, as he hooked a finger under the collar of Gerard's t-shirt, and pulled him up the bed and settled him between his thighs. “Don't.”

 

“I want to draw you one day,” he said as Frank pushed forward and brought their mouths together.

 

_The end of paralysis, I was a statuette, the sound of loneliness makes me happier_

–

**November 21 st, 1999**

 

“This is stupid, you’re stupid, and I guess I must be fucking stupid as well because I love you.”


End file.
